


What to Expect

by sandy_s



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 16:29:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4842464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sandy_s/pseuds/sandy_s
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rating: PG-13<br/>Disclaimer: I own nothing. Joss owns all…<br/>Summary: Set after “Intervention.” Buffy takes care of Spike after the kiss.<br/>Dedication: This fic is for Tiana! Hope you enjoy, sweetie. . . although I must apologize in advance for the lack of excessive angst and sex in elevators.<br/>Author's Note: Parts One and Three are Buffy POV and Part Two is Spike POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

Spike sleeps.

Funny how innocent someone can look when dreams overtake him. 

I used to watch Angel sleeping. Even after he came back from hell, I would worry that he would open his eyes and be Angelus. Rationally, I knew that we hadn’t done anything to make him lose his soul, but irrational Buffy was afraid. I felt like I was always holding my breath. . . even when I believed I was happy. 

With Spike, I always know what to expect when he rouses. I’ve startled him awake enough times. . . kicking in his crypt door and slamming him against walls. He would give that little grunt of surprise, sneer at me, and ask me if I’ve finally come for. . .

I close my eyes and open them again. 

No.

He won’t be doing that today. 

And I didn’t make a sound when I entered.

The morning light slices indirectly across the crypt, over Spike’s inert body, and I step a little closer as my eyes adjust to the diffuse glow. He doesn’t look comfortable on the top of the concrete sarcophagus. . . not that a sarcophagus could be comfortable. His right ankle is swollen and twisted in an abnormal fashion, and he’s still wearing his torn, bloodied clothes from yesterday. Pale flesh peeks out from beneath black, and I have a hard time telling where the bruises end and cotton begins. His platinum blonde hair is normally slicked back, but now loose strands curl gently over his red-slashed forehead.

Without thinking, I reach out to brush aside the hair. My lips tingle in the phantom remembrance of the kiss I gave him earlier. . . yesterday evening when I found out what he had done for Dawn. . . for me. I’d expected his lips to be icy and hard. . . even though I knew from kissing Angel that they wouldn’t be.

Spike is hard, cold, bitter. . . at least when he talks to me lately. And neither of us were under a spell. I hardly recall what kissing Spike was like last year. . . the memories from Willow’s spell quickly became vague, unwanted, pushed aside figments of leftover musings. . . .

And earlier I expected his kiss to match his. . . 

But his lips were soft, pliant. . . gentle. 

He must have been nice because he thought I was. . .

Lucky for me, Spike stirs before I can make contact, startling me out of my trance. His hand moves over his face as if he’s swatting away a fly, barely missing my hand. 

Inhaling sharply, I stumble back a bit. What am I doing here? Spike doesn’t deserve this much attention. . . no matter what he didn’t tell Glory. After all, he recently threatened to kill me if I didn’t return his distorted, evil affections, and he had sex with that. . . robot. 

What would my friends think if they knew I stood in Spike’s crypt, left arm full of medical supplies and heart in my throat? 

I take a few steps back. 

Maybe if I’m quiet enough, I can escape before he wakes up, and he’ll be none the wiser to my presence. 

Of course, there would happen to be that pesky table behind me. . . the one that Spike picked up from the junkyard with the half-broken, wobbly leg. The candles that are sliding are thankfully unlit, and somehow, I manage to juggle the medical supplies, three pillar candles and the table without too much noise. 

My legs are slightly crossed and in opposite directions and my arms are bent in an awkward position. How the hell am I supposed to get everything back in place without waking Spike?

Okay, Buffy. 

First things first, right the table. The dilapidated wooden thing sways back and forth as I tilt it back into place. Now why would Spike pick furniture made of wood? 

Then, candles. . . slide them into place. 

Done.

Now, crap! Stupid box of supplies is suddenly too slippery for my fingers and tumbles to the floor with a soft thud. 

My head whips up. 

Spike hasn’t moved. 

I stoop to pick up the package, ready to make my escape.

“What are you doing here?”

No “Slayer” is tacked onto the end of the question, and his words are halting, almost scratchy like he has something in his throat. My heart stirs just a little, and I remember what Xander said earlier. 

_God, I feel kinda bad for the guy. . . . It's just... the guy was *so* thrashed. . . ._

How can I possibly leave when he sounds so. . . hurt?

Spike is not supposed to get hurt. . . be hurt. . . not unless I am the one doing the damage. Somehow, that option doesn’t seem quite as appealing as it used to. 

He coughs, turning onto his side and squinting into the shadows. “Slayer?”

Oh, there he is. My voice comes out in a whisper, “Yes?” So much for confident, head-held-high Buffy.

“What are you doing here? Come to take back what you said earlier?” 

I feel the tug of familiar annoyance, and the irritation renews my confidence. “No. Why would I do that?”

“Cause you. . .” In a move that I’m certain must be extremely painful, he flips his legs over the side of the coffin and balances on his left foot, one hand behind him to hide his need for extra stability. 

Guess he’s not the only one who feels uncertain after our last encounter. 

He studies me when I say nothing. . . eyes flicking over my jeans, flowered peasant blouse and onto the carton cradled in my arm. I stand stock still, praying silently that he can’t see how much his stare is affecting me. 

He nods toward my parcel. “What you got there?” 

“Just dropping off some stuff that you might need.” And then, I’ll take you back to my place and I’ll take care of you. It’s the least I can do after what you did for Dawn. . . for me.

“Thanks, pet. I’ll take it off your hands, and then, you won’t have to pay me anymore mind. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do today what with Glory still. . .” He reaches for the supplies and takes a step forward on his twisted foot only to completely lose his balance. 

His falling lends me surety of action, and I hurry forward without thinking, slipping my free arm around his waist, avoiding his broken ribs, and taking his weight against my side. “Got you.”

His right arm floats in the air for a moment, uncertain about whether to settle on me or not. Making a decision for him, I drop the box and grab his forearm with my hand. His muscles tense beneath my touch, and I marvel at how soft the skin on his arm is. . . soft like his lips against mine. 

“Thanks,” he manages before coughing again. 

I swallow the uncertainty that’s made me go all cotton-mouthed. “Let’s go.”

“How about the chair over there, pet?” he asks, nodding toward his tattered recliner. 

That’s not what I meant at all. “No.”

“What do you mean, ‘no’? Got a better idea?” 

If the words hadn’t come out so innocent, I probably would have dropped him where I stood and walked out. But, I am trying to be patient, and I can understand the logic of his question. Where does Buffy want Spike to go? 

I know I’m losing it when I talk to myself in third person.

“Well, I thought you could come back to my place.” That sounds good. . . I don’t sound hurried or nervous. 

Spike stares at me like I’m insane. 

So, I tack on more words. Dumb, dumb, dumb. “Well, seeing as you’re all hurt, you’re vulnerable to attack in the crypt, and well. . .” My gaze falls to the dusty ground and back up the cobwebs in the corners, anything to avoid looking directly at Spike. “. . . it’s dirty here. That can’t be good for your injuries. Got to keep them clean. . . first rule of wound care in the Slayer handbook.” 

“That’s not in the handbook, love.” He’s laughing at me. 

What? “*You’ve* read the handbook?” My eyes widen. “There’s really a handbook?” 

“Every self-respecting vampire has a copy.” He squeezes my waist ever so slightly. 

Before I can stop myself, I giggle. 

How is he capable of making me simultaneously feel so good and so damned pissed?


	2. Part Two

Buffy’s shadow-filled front porch must be heaven. . . not that I will ever know heaven unless it’s heaven on this great green earthly plane. 

She drove an SUV straight back to her house from my crypt, using a bloody umbrella to get me to the car. My hand almost went up in smoke when the breeze took hold of the underside of the shade, but Buffy closed her palm over my fingers and took care of that little danger straight away. She met my eyes in that instant but looked away again almost as quickly. . . same as she’s been doing since she snuck into my tomb and woke me. And although my leg hurt like a bugger, she managed to take away every ounce of pain by simply being ever present at my side. . . assisting me from the crypt to the auto and from the auto to the porch. 

Now that we’ve ascended the steps to her porch, she steps away. I’m left wobbly and confused. The blanket she used to cover me in the car falls from my shoulders to the floorboards.

What am I doing here?

My head hurts, my ribs ache, and my foot feels like it might fall off any second, and I can’t begin to count the small cuts and bruises that envelop my skin. 

This must be a dream. . . another worthless pipe dream about the unwelcome Slayer who haunts the hallways of my heart. 

I blink.

Not a dream. 

Having opened the door to her home, she stands poised in the doorway, looking at me as if she’s lost her voice. Maybe I’m unsure because she is. I don’t know. 

Fundamentally, I know that we are different creatures with dissimilar motivations but the uncertainty is the same. . . the feelings are alike.

Tilting my head to one side, I squint my one non-blood-tinged eye at her and hobble forward to lean against the doorframe. I’m too worn out to hide my fatigue. 

Her green eyes flash with memories, and I immediately know what she’s remembering. . . .

_She regards me. . . cool confidence slightly more cracked than in the past. . . inwardly shattered by the infestation that is Angelus._

_Any other night, I would have used her vulnerability against her, but tonight, I have my own agenda. Any other night, a stake would have already penetrated my heart, but she has her own agenda as well._

_We both want Angelus dead. I’m not sure if I should be flattered or insulted that the plan does not include killing me._

_Come in, Spike. To my surprise and chagrin, there’s a form of trust in her words._

“Well?”

My eyes flick to present-day Buffy. She’s definitely a changed Buffy. . . less naïve. . . harder but somehow more vulnerable. 

“What?” Did she already ask me inside? If a vampire doesn’t hear the invitation to enter a dwelling, is the invite still valid? 

Keeping her gaze locked with mine, she steps backward into her house. Tentatively, I follow, arms tingling in anticipation of being knocked to the ground by the mystical barrier she recently erected.

Nothing happens.

And somehow, I can’t believe she’s allowing me back. 

My ankle caves without warning, and excruciating pain shoots up through the muscles to my brain, sending sparklies dancing across my vision. Gritting my teeth, I hold back the cry pressing through my lips. 

Buffy grasps my arm to prevent my inevitable collapse and ushers me to the sofa. 

She kneels at my feet, pulling up the bottom of my jeans to untie my boots. Still overwhelmed, I hardly notice when she slips the boot and sock away from my foot. With a tenderness I never would have expected, she prods and touches and inspects my ankle with slender, warm fingers. 

Funny how naked I feel with just one shoe gone. 

“I think it’s broken,” she finally concludes. 

“It’s probably just been twisted, pet,” I insist, ever defiant. 

“It needs to be set before it heals funny. . . not that I wouldn’t mind hobble-some Spike. Make you easier to keep track of if you were all limp-y.” She’s keeping her voice even. . . light.

“I can set it myself.” Bloody hell, woman, I just need to go back to sleep.

She lifts an eyebrow at me. “Second rule of Slayer wound care: set broken bones ASAP. I assume the same holds true for vampire bones.” 

I match her toe to toe. “Vampires aren’t like Slayers in all ways, pet.” I think I might have made the opposite argument at some point, but I can’t recall.

“You’re right; they’re monsters.” 

I recall my little conversation with Xander before Glory snatched me up. Really, what do I care what that whelp of a man thinks anyway? Yet. . .

_I’m not a monster._

_Yes, you are a monster! Vampires are monsters. They make monster movies about them!_

_Well, yeah, you got me there._

And with that, she grasps my ankle and sets the bone. 

Agony reigns, and this time I can’t bite back the scream. 

An immeasurable amount of time passes before I can focus properly again, and the first thing I do is glare at the petite woman sitting beside me. 

“Do you think I should have warned you?” Her brow furrows in worry. 

“You think?” I meant to use a harsher tone of voice, but the words barely come out. My ankle aches. For the first time, I’m glad I don’t have circulation or my whole leg would be throbbing. 

Buffy presses something cold, wet, and smooth into my hand. 

“Drink,” she commands. 

“Fellow gets banged up, and the first thing you do is. . .

“Set his broken bones for him so his bones don’t grow back together all backwards?”

“Yeah.” The corner of my mouth pushes up despite my attempts to maintain my scowl. “Thanks.”

Although she tries to hide her feelings, she seems startled as if she can’t fathom how a vampire could be grateful for something. “You’re welcome,” trips out of her mouth before she can restrain herself. 

Then, she throws me off. Standing to her feet, she towers over me. “Lay down.”

Setting the untouched drink aside and sprawling back, I can’t help myself, “Like to be on top, do you?”

A wall slips back into place, and her face is impassive. Well, that didn’t take much, did it? Way to go, Spike.

“That was uncalled for.” Now that’s quite different from her usual reaction. Normally, I’d have a stake over my heart and some vague, unsubstantiated threats thrown at me. 

“What else did you expect?” Digging myself deeper and deeper. 

She picks up a pair of scissors. She meets my eyes earnestly. “I don’t know.”

Maybe she expects to have Soldier Boy here. . . all puppy-eyed and tortured by Glory. . . in need of her ministrations. Somehow, that bothers me, but I can’t exactly explain why.

The force of her gaze silences me. . . but not for long. “What’re you doing, pet?”

She lifts up the bottom of my shirt, and in doing so, her fingertips brush over my lower abdomen. My body reacts automatically. I inhale sharply but cover just as quickly, “Ow. Watch it.”

“You say nothing to getting your bone set but complain when I lift up your shirt?”

I grin sheepishly. “Yeah, well, the shirt lifting hurts. ‘Sides what about my privacy? You ever heard of personal space?”

“Baby,” she teases, eyes sparkling with humor. 

She opens the scissors and proceeds to cut off my shirt. “You got some pretty bad wounds under there. You need to get out of the shirt before your skin grows together with the cotton,” she informs me.

She’s right. I’ve just been too exhausted to do anything to take care of myself. I don’t really relish the notion of picking fibers out of my skin later. “Right, love,” I acquiesce. “Go ahead.”

The Slayer uses her hip to push my legs to one side. As she does, she notices the sofa, and a faint spark of sorrow flickers across her features. I recall vaguely that Dawn said Buffy found her mother dead on this very couch. 

I can’t exactly say that I know much about what she went through, but I can imagine how she felt when she found out her mum was sick. My mum was sick once, too. “Thank you.”

She acts confused, “For what?” 

Surrendering myself to the contradictory icy sliver of the scissors and the heat of her hands, I try not to groan with desire. Swallowing my hunger, I say, “For this. You didn’t have to do it, you know. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

“I know.” The tip of the scissors grazes the soft underbelly of my jaw. 

She says nothing more, so I fall silent myself, wondering what her actions mean. I know perfectly well that she expected the Soldier Boy to be laying here on this couch. . . or Angel. Maybe she supposes that if she studies me close enough, she’ll find a little bit of Mr. Soulful in me, being that he’s technically my grandsire and all. 

Maybe the kiss was all about memories of kissing Angel. . .

A bright flash of anger races through my brain, and I almost jerk away from her at the same time as she begins peeling off my blood-caked shirt. 

“Hey,” she whispers with a mix of trepidation and wonder. “What happened here?” 

The anger drains away, and I lift my head a bit to watch her feather touch the stab wounds on my chest. I wince at the vibrant memory of Glory burying her claws in my flesh and peeling up layers of skin.

“Hell goddess dug her fingers into me, trying to find out about the Nibblet.” 

She reaches for her doctor’s kit then, and as she turns her head from me, I notice the sheen in her eyes. I blink and stare again. Must have been my imagination.

“I’m sorry,” she says, clicking open the box and pulling out antiseptic, medicine, and gauze.

I have no reply, so I merely watch her and relish the heat of her body next to mine. Despite the recent dampening of her spirit, she warms me as no sun ever could. 

After applying the alcohol with a puff of white over each of the wounds, she patiently blows on my burning skin, sending drafts of her breath to tantalize my senses. Then, she dips her finger into the cool cream and deposits little refreshing oases over the deepest injuries. The bandages come next, and as she applies the last bit of tape, I realize I’ve forgotten about the pain in my ankle.

She pats my stomach with her clean hand and smiles at her work. “There.”

Now, I find myself having to ask. Call me sick in the head. . . and heart, but I have to know. Willing her to raise eyes to meet mine, I steady my voice, risk laying my hand atop hers, and ask, “Why?”

Green collides with blue, and she stammers, “Why what?”

“Why did you kiss me?”

“Who kissed Spike and what the hell is the evil undead doing in Buffy’s living room?” a masculine voice bellows from the doorway, rising in volume with each syllable.

Buffy practically jumps to her feet, spilling the tubes and rolls in her lap to the ground. As if magnetized, I sit up, ripping extra tears of pain through my body. 

The whelp, the witch and the little sis stand in the living room doorway. 

None of them are smiling.


	3. Part Three

Xander, Willow, and Dawn overheard Spike’s question, and they’re witness to my ministrations. Bandages and medical supplies litter the carpet at my feet.

I expect Spike to smirk, posture, and probably brag about me kissing him.

But he doesn’t.

I’m not sure if it’s because he genuinely cares about my little sister or if he is really too physically hurt to think of a witty come back. 

Somehow I doubt these are the reasons he stays silent.

I kind of wish he would say something because then, I don’t have to figure out what to say. My busy brain is darting from one thought and excuse to the next, and my heart is hammering furiously in my chest. 

Stupid fight or flight reaction.

Somehow I latch onto a coherent thought and that thought exits my mouth, “Spike was a mess. . . ‘thrashed’ as you said.” 

My eyes flick to Xander, and he won’t make eye contact at me. He stares with tangible hatred at the vampire balanced on the sofa next to me. 

If hatred was a demon, Xander’s would be loud and dangerous with some sort of magical ability that I don’t know how to defeat and neither does he.

“I didn’t mean for you to bring him here.” Xander sounds like he does when he’s upset about my associations with Angel. “And he’s half naked. What’s that about? I mean, yeah, he didn’t cave in to Glory, but that doesn’t mean you should cater to his disgusting fantasies about you.” 

Willow is more tentative, and she edges in front of Xander, tugging the long sleeve of her blouse over her hand. “Buffy, we just redid the threshold spell.”

Her unsure approach leaves me more speechless than Xander’s anger. 

What do I say to them? I kissed Spike because he saved Dawn from being captured by Glory? That won’t make much sense to any of them. 

The kiss hardly makes sense to me, and I’m the one who deliberately chose the action.

Spike glances from one person to the next, no doubt putting the pieces together as he always does. 

Shakily rising to his feet, he winces but tries to hide the pain. 

My treacherous heart skips in concern. 

His voice is a touch hoarse. “Right. Well, I’ll just be going now.”

Straightening his shoulders and proudly jutting up his chin, he limps toward the trio blocking the doorway, not very successfully trying to put his usual swagger into his step. He wisely chooses to pass along Dawn’s side to avoid further confrontation with Xander.

“Wait.” Dawn puts a small hand on Spike’s purple and indigo-covered forearm.

Spike is startled at her touch. “What, pigeon?”

He’s always warm and less irritable with Dawn. Even when I got mad at him for helping Dawn break into the Magic Box, he defended himself, yes, but he protected her even then. 

What does this mean about Spike? If he does care about my sister, I want to understand why. 

Dawn continues, “You should stay. It’s too sunny out there and you’re all hurt and stuff. You might be more likely to go poof. And Buffy already got you here. You should rest and leave tomorrow.”

Spike’s whole body softens, and the emotion in his face lays wide open for her. He doesn’t look anywhere but into her eyes as he replies, “You’ll have to ask big sis.”

Xander clears his throat. “Leave Dawn alone. Don’t try any of your vampire thrall tactics on her.”

Spike snorts and manages to cover his grimace by bracing himself with the doorframe behind him. “’Thrall tactics?’ That’s a Dracula deal. . .” 

Moving to lean heavily on the wall, he rolls his eyes thoughtfully to the ceiling, sticking out a finger to punctuate his addendum, “Well, and Dru, but Dru’s is different. . . less poncy. ‘Sides Dawn here wouldn’t fall for something like that. She’s too smart.” 

My protest comes out louder than I want, “Hey!” 

“Wasn’t talking about you. It’s different with Dracula and Slayers. Unlike with Bug Boy here.”

“Hey!” Xander echoes, but the effort is weak because he’s embarrassed. 

Spike grins, and somehow I know he can’t help himself.

Aim, shoot, score.

Willow is ever the peacemaker and offers a compromise, “So he stays the night. We all stay here, too.” 

Her voice skips when she sees Xander’s glare. “T-to make sure he doesn’t make a move on Buffy and to make sure that Glory doesn’t get Spike while he’s all injured. We can re-do the magicks tomorrow.”

Dawn pipes up, “I like that idea.” 

“That’s because you have a crush on Buffy’s crazy stalker vampire,” Xander retorts. 

As soon as he says it, I can tell he immediately regrets the words. . . doesn’t mean them. He’s reacting and not thinking. He probably wishes Dawn still had a moon-eyed crush on him. What he doesn’t know is that she probably does.

Spike and Dawn glare at him, and Willow’s mouth hangs open a little in astonishment at the line he’s crossed. She chews her lip.

My mind is coming back online now, so I find firm words to grasp onto, “Okay, okay. We’ll be fine for tonight. Dawn and I will sleep in the same room for tonight, and Spike’s in no condition to make a move on me, so he’ll stay in Mom’s room or downstairs. Xander, I love you, but I’m going to ask you and Will to go. We. . . I just don’t need the tension right now with everything going on with Glory. Spike will go back to his crypt tomorrow after he regains some of his strength back.”

A little breath escapes me, and I search the room for the aftermath of my speech.

Several emotions war in Xander’s eyes, and he purposefully unclenches the fist that had balled up at his side. Shoving his hands in his jacket pockets, his words are clipped, “Fine. Will, let’s go.”

I can tell he wants to say more, but he’s holding himself back. 

Worry in her big green eyes, Willow tucks a strand of scarlet hair behind one ear and searches her purse for her car keys. They rattle against her palm. “Call me if you need anything.”

Relief washes over me. “I will.”

She and I exchange small apologetic smiles. 

As soon as they are out the door, Dawn slumps her shoulders and heaves a sigh. “Thank goodness.” 

She turns to Spike. “Thank you for. . .”

Spike interrupts her, dismissing the significance of his actions to protect her, “Anytime, love.”

“For the record, I don’t have a crush on you ‘cause you’re all old and stuff.”

He chuckles. “Got that, pet. We have an understanding.”

So is that all it is. . . tit for tat? He helps my sister in exchange for what? To get closer to me? 

Not too long ago Spike was deliberately and awkwardly trying to make sure he earned points for not eating attack victims. 

I have to remind myself of these things to keep my head clear. 

Dawn derails my thinking by announcing, “I don’t know *what* is going on between the two of you, but Xander’s right. It’s more than just a little weird. First, you.” She gestures at Spike.

His surprised expression is tinged with vague amusement. 

Dawn shoves a hip out and ticks off his transgressions with her fingers. “You have a huge crush on my sister and start following her around all the time to prove that you’re worthy. You steal her pictures and stuff, and then you tie her up and offer to kill Dru to profess your love. And then, you build a robot of her. . . to have sex with or something. By the way, that’s just eww. And you.” 

Her fingers motion at me in a similar fashion. “Spike does all that bad stuff, and you keep letting him work with everyone. Then, when you finally magically kick him out of the house, you end up kssing him and bringing him back here when he gets all wounded and stuff. There are *way* too many mixed signals going on here. I care about you both, but I give up, and I’m going to go upstairs.” 

My sister doesn’t give either of us a chance to respond, her feet already trudging up the stairs as she calls down, “Work it out.”

Well, my friends and sister were a nice distraction from Spike. 

Now I’m left alone with him. 

He remains leaning against the wall but sags to the ground, a soft moan escaping his lips and a deep cough rattling his chest as his behind reaches the floor. He must have been trying hard to hold it together. I comprehend that he can probably be himself around me.

Before I quite realize what I’m doing, I’m squatting at his side, careful not to touch him. The earlier ease between us is gone. Am I giving him mixed signals? “You okay?”

Spike’s eyes are closed, his head back, but he murmurs, “She’s right, you know. They all are. Don’t know why you’re being so. . . .” A wave of pain stops him for a moment, but he finishes, “Nice to me after everything I’ve done.”

Maybe I am as mixed up as Dawn alluded to. I don’t know how to answer his query.

So I find myself leaning on the wall next to him with my hands moving over the smooth baseboards and my eyes shutting to mirror him. My words are honest, “I don’t know.”

For some reason, my mind flashes to the night I found out about how serious things were for my mom. When I was crying on the porch, Spike refused to go away. Instead, he joined me on the back steps until I cried out all my tears. . . he was there for me, more present and still than he’s ever been with me.

“Because you’ve shown compassion to me and to Dawn when we needed it the most.” I hesitate but ask, “Why?”

I hear Spike shift. “Why what?”

“Why are you caring toward us?” Is it because I’m the Slayer, and you’ve always gotten your rocks off on messing with Slayers?

I feel nervous when he doesn’t answer right away, so I continue, “It’s hard. . . to know what to expect from you sometimes. I mean, you’re predictable in a lot of ways, but in others. . . when you’re kind. . . when you do unselfish things, it’s confusing.” 

You see, these things make you more than a soulless creature in my mind.

More silence and then, “I don’t mean to be confusing, pet. I’m just following my emotions. . . and I think I’ve always had that. . . compassion in me. . . for the ones I care about.” 

This time the silence feels companionable. . . comforting.

His next words are thoughtful , “To be honest, you confuse me, too. The little bit, I get her, but you. . . I still don’t know why you kissed me. . . why you’re playing doctor. I get what you said about helping Dawn being real and all, but you didn’t have to kiss me.”

“I guess I wanted you to know that it meant something to me. . . that it wasn’t a farce like the time Willow spelled us or. . . with the robot. I wanted to reinforce the good that I see in you.”

His voice is rough and low when he asks, “Trying to convince yourself or me?” 

I try to wrap my mind around what he’s asking. “Of what?” 

“That what you see. . . what you feel is real?” His earnestness is palpable and free of snark or sarcasm. 

I can’t answer his question, so I’m silent. 

Then, his cool lips slide tenderly over mine as he returns my earlier kiss. He doesn’t press to deepen the gesture of affection, and almost before I comprehend what is happening and can open my eyes, his touch is gone, and he grunts as he pushes himself off the floor. 

“Gonna lie down on the sofa if you don’t mind. Get some shut eye.”

Heat flows into my cheeks, and I scramble to stand and offer him assistance. 

He ducks his head. “Nah. I got it.”

I watch as he hobbles to his destination and cautiously eases his bruised but bandaged body down. He closes his eyes again, and satisfied that he is settled, I head for the stairs to join my sister. 

His voice barely reaches my ears as my foot touches the bottom step, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For being real. . . not just when we talked but when you took care of me.”

Even though he can’t see me, I turn back with a smile on my face. “You’re welcome.” 

My feet are silent on the stairs. 

I’m still not sure what to expect from Spike and don’t think he knows how to handle things with me, but today, I feel like we made a good start. 

Funny that we could be most honest with our eyes closed. 

We might have to try that more often.

9-19-15


End file.
